


The adventures of Sammy and his only slightly less murdery brother! (Part Two)

by millygal



Series: Only Slightly Murdery [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 13:21:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12059844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/pseuds/millygal
Summary: When you can *feel* the memory your brother's tongue wrapping you, how do you focus on anything else?





	The adventures of Sammy and his only slightly less murdery brother! (Part Two)

**Author's Note:**

> Well, phew, done, and I was so NOT expecting this to be the ending of this little fic series, but I like it, I'm quite proud of it. Thank you toratio for prompting me, it threw up some shizz I never expected! Thank you to jj1564 for her beta, as always, 'cause she's friggin' awesome! <3 I *may* revisit this specific 'verse for an end of that season coda ;)

Sam sits motionless on his bed listening to the sounds of Dean tossing and turning next door; calling out in his sleep, begging for forgiveness, praying for redemption, all interspersed with hacking sobs that break Sam’s heart.

After Dean had finally managed to break free of his bindings, with absolutely no help from Sam  - because the look on Dean’s face threatened bloody retribution if Sam even thought about touching his brother - Dean had fled.

He’d fled and locked himself away in his room, the room that Sam had spent the previous night being screwed into the mattress in, and it’s with the heaviest of hearts and the largest of lumps in his throat that the younger Winchester winces every time he hears Dean cry out and thrash against the sheets wrapping his legs.

Sam can see it all so clearly; Dean’s bowed knees and boney ankles hanging off the edge of the bed whilst the covers continue to wind themselves around him as he attempts to run from whatever image is haunting him and chasing him through his dreams, drenched in sweat and eyes rolling beneath closed lids.

Sam feels not only responsible for Dean’s night terrors, but he wishes with his whole being that he could rewind time and _not_ crawl into the Demon’s bed, not offer himself up as meat for the grinder.

Dean’s home, he’s human and he’s safe, for now, but with the Mark still marring his skin and the Demon’s fingerprints still fresh on Sam’s purpling flesh, there’s no telling how long that safety will hold.

If Dean won’t even entertain the idea of talking to Sam about every fucked up thing they did whilst his soul was covered in cloying black smoke, Sam doesn’t know how they’ll get past this thing, this huge thing that’s hanging over them like an executioner's blade.

“I’m sorry.”

His whispered words of regret go unheard as Dean howls next door, and it’s all Sam can do not to force his way into the room and wrap his brother in his arms.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean’s head feels like someone poured a pile of rocks in his ear and shook him like a snow globe.

He can’t focus, he can’t think, he can’t do anything but remember the taste of Sam’s come as it flowed freely down his throat.

If he’d done nothing but fuck his brother, Dean might be able to live with his demonic activities, but he didn’t _just_ fuck his brother.

He killed, he maimed, he hurt.

He _enjoyed_ it all.

From the feel of Sammy opening up beneath him to the sound of Lester’s ribs parting around the First blade.

All so crystal clear, all so painfully technicolour and right there at the front of his memory like he’s stuffing popcorn in his mouth and watching _The life and times of Demon Dean_.

He can _taste_ Lester’s fear, and it’s tainting the scent of Sam’s sweat coating his chest as he heaved for breath and begged to be allowed to come.

Dean knows Sam _thinks_ he’s ashamed of their **relationship**. He isn’t. He never has been. He knew, a long time before the Mark crept into his life and sullied everything he touched, that one day they would become more than brothers. He just wishes it hadn’t been whilst he was harbouring black eyes and a swinging brick where his soul used to reside.

Will Sam ever be able to trust that this thing is genuine or will he always think it’s a residual effect of the Demon?

Will Dean be able to untangle the same thing?

As Dean pulls on his socks and allows his mind to fully inhabit the banality of the act, he wonders if he should invite Sam to him or allow Sam to push in. What would be better for him, for them, long term?

It doesn’t help that everything in his room smells like Sam and sex. Sex and stolen moments between two people that should have taken this step years ago instead of allowing a Demon to make the decision for them.

Before Dean makes any kind of choice about where he and Sam stand, he has to come to terms with the fact that he rejoiced in pain and hatred and hurting people.

Although, he does wonder, without the veneer of being a Hunter and the excuse that they were saving people, isn’t he just a psychopath with slightly murdery tendencies?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s been days, days and days of Sam looking at Dean’s back and Dean refusing to face him, and Sam can’t take it any longer.

No matter what happened between them when Dean was a Demon, he’s still a Hunter and a brother with responsibilities and duties, and a fucking obligation to step up and stop being a prissy bitch about it all.

They _both_ have a job to do and that job isn’t getting done because Dean’s refusing to make eye contact with Sam, let alone discuss anything that went before.

“Dean?”

Dean’s shoulders roll forward, like hunching his back will protect him from the onslaught of Sam’s always inquisitive voice. And it infuriates Sam to the point he thinks he might just give his brother an open palmed slap upside the head, if only for the fact it will make him turn and look him in the face.

“Dean!”

Dean knows he’s not handling this well; he knows Sam thinks one thing, that Dean despises him, which is so far from the truth of it, but if he opens that can of worms he has to then step into the murky subject of every sordid thing he did whilst he was a Demon.

Dean just hasn’t had the energy or the willpower to face the memories of his murderous actions.

Sam’s suffering, and for that Dean is truly sorry, but he _needs_ time.

It’s with his cock twitching in his jeans and a heart that feels like it’s never going to recover, that Dean steps out from beneath Sam’s fingers as they try and squeeze his shoulder. “I can’t, not yet.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean sits with his back to Sam’s door, listening intently to the violence in Sam’s movements. The untethered anger that goes along with being so frustrated with his brother.

There’s no kinder or more caring man than Sam, and if he’s standing in the centre of his room destroying furniture and books like they’re Fangs and Banshees, Dean _has_ to step in, step up, be the man he knows Sam desperately needs.

They haven’t said more than ten words to each other since Dean _returned_ and over the constant itching of the Mark telegraphing along his arm, Dean can feel regret, like a millstone hanging around his neck, dragging him down and crushing his lungs.

Shaking his head and grinding his teeth, Dean stands squares his shoulders and lays a hand on Sam’s door handle.

~~~~~~~~~

Dean hasn’t even properly set foot in Sam’s room before he’s being physically lifted into the air and slammed into the closest flat surface.

“You fucking dick!”

Dean expected tears, because Sam’s a bit of a girl when it comes to this crap, but he did not expect physical assault, and he certainly didn’t foresee the fire pulsing behind his brother’s eyes. “Sammy, I - we need to - I’m sorry.”

Sam can see Dean’s struggling to find the words, and he doesn’t fucking care. He’s spent a week wanting nothing more than to sink into his brother’s arms but all he’s been offered are cold shoulders and sullen silences, and he’s beyond the point of rational. “Sorry? You’re SORRY? I get that you hate me, that I disgust you, but you had no right to - to - fuck, Dean?”

Despite the dangerous looking vein popping and vibrating above his left eye, Dean can hear how lost Sam is and it’s devastating.

Reaching out, letting his hands come up to cup Sam’s cheeks, Dean leans down and drops a gentle kiss on his brother’s cheek. It’s soft, sweet, everything Dean isn’t, and it forces Sam’s ire down enough to realise this is an olive branch, a chance to talk.

Sam sets Dean on his feet, lets him slide slowly down the wall, but doesn’t relinquish his double fisted grip of Dean’s shirt. “I can’t do this any more, Dean. What we did, what I did - “

Dean’s not a small man, never has been, but facing up at Sam, his eyes alight with truth and honesty and hurt, he feels tiny, feels like someone could sweep him into their pocket and make away with him.

Still cupping Sam’s cheeks, Dean pulls his brother’s face down and slams their lips together.

Dean kisses the absolute breath out of Sam. Literally inhales every sigh and moan until Sam’s on the verge of clawing at his throat. Once Dean’s sure Sam’s going to be quiet, he pulls away.

Clicking his fingers in Sam’s face, Dean waits for his eyes to open and focus. “Sam, you did _nothing_ wrong. I just wish - the timing sucked, we should have - **I** should have done something about this a long time ago. Whatever happens from here on out, we’re a unit, a team. I’m just so sorry that you thought I - that I didn’t _want_ you, that you disgust me; you could **never** \- I always loved you. Always.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam lies sated in Dean’s arms, boneless and blissfully ignorant of the world outside their twelve inch thick walls, and he finds himself tracing the outline of the Mark still etched into his brother’s skin. “We need to - “

“Later.” Dean knows they need to find a way to remove that offending piece of blood soaked body art, but for now he’s quite content to feel the weight of Sam’s head pillowed against his chest, and he’s only mildly worried that he can _hear_ his own voice echoing in the back of his mind.

“ _Give me time, Dean, give me time._ ”

 

 

 

Fin!


End file.
